SPN fic for Bethy birthday. Home - Wee!Winchesters and John PG
I have finished my spn_summergen fic! It's off to be beta-ed and I'm vaguely pleased with it.
RL at work is still hectic - I'm cleaning toys, and trying to tidy my store, and still keep the kids working and not stressing about next year's intake.
But the main reason for me posting is to wish bethynyc a wonderfully happy birthday. Bethy and I had a blast a couple of years ago writing Baby!Watchers Wesley and Nigel, and I adore her school!verse stuff. Bethy, I have an idea for some Dean/Faith, but for now, accept this little slice of Wee!Winchesters and John schmoop as a birthday sugar overload.
TITLE: Home
RATING: PG (gen)
CHARACTERS: Wee!Dean, Wee!Sammy and John
DISCLAIMER: Not my boys
NOTES: 900 words. Written for 50scenes Prompt #2 Cold. And for Bethy's birthday. John wakes up.
He wakes up freezing. Not pleasantly cool, not a little chilly, but ball-crawlingly, achingly cold. The kind of cold that numbs the tip of his nose, ears and any other extremities unfortunate enough to be left exposed in such arctic conditions. He rolls over, and sees tiny spiderwebs of ice cracking across the window pane, the faint pale shimmer of dawn painting them silver.
His breath steams in the chilled air, and he reaches over to the nightstand, scatters a handful of salt, but there’s no reaction. He reaches in the drawer for his gun almost on a reflex, then stills his hand. It’s the furnace; most likely, especially considering the wards Jim has set in place here.
There’s a soft noise down the hall, pattering feet, and he wonders for a moment if these old parish houses have rats, and exactly how big they must be for him to hear them all the way down the hall, then realizes it’s the boys.
Sammy, probably. He sighs and climbs out of bed, the bare floorboards like sheet-ice under his feet. He feels around for the heavy flannel shirt he shucked off last night, but has no joy. He’d been wrecked; half-asleep for the last fifty miles, bargaining with each eye, closing one, then the other, turn about, as the snow fell quiet and deadly against the windscreen.
He’d arrived around midnight, exhausted and aching and goddamn lucky not to have wrapped the Impala around that big old oak tree at the front of the church. He has vague memories of Jim hustling him inside and giving him hot whiskey and a stern lecture on the perils of driving while comatose. So frankly he’s not surprised he can’t remember where the hell he threw his clothes before he collapsed into bed.
He gives up and heads out of the bedroom in threadbare t-shirt and worn pajama pants. If anything, the hall outside is colder than the guest bedroom. The hairs on his arms rise, and he rubs at the goosebumps, the faint friction warming the skin. The boys are in the room at the end of the corridor, the little low-eaved attic bedroom that Jim always keeps ready for them, just in case. It’s comforting and sobering in equal measure.
He stops at the door. Only one bed is occupied; Dean’s, the one nearest the window, because that’s where Dean always sleeps. So he can check on the salt lines and stand guard, he said simply, when John enquired. Sammy’s bed is empty; the sheets pulled back, the comforter missing.
Sam is curled up against Dean, wrapped tight in the cocoon of the comforter and pulled in close under his brother’s arm. They’re little more than two heads on a pillow, all bound up in a nest of blankets and sheets and what appears to be John’s missing flannel shirt.
Dean surfaces first, gradually aware of another presence in the room. He pushes the comforter down.
“Dad.” His teeth are chattering a little. “Didn’t mean to wake you.”
“S’okay. It’s kinda cold.”
“Yes, sir.” It’s not the yessir of obedience, but more an expression of agreement as Dean nods vehemently, the movement disturbing his brother.
“Deean. You got all the blankets.” Sam’s face appears over the edge of the comforter. “Daddy!”
“Sammy.” John grins, leans against the doorjamb, and wraps his hands around his trembling upper arms.
“D’you get it?” Sammy asks and Dean snorts.
“Course he did. Right, Dad?”
John nods. “Salted and burned.” He steps into the room. “You been good for Pastor Jim?”
The synchronized nodding is a little too enthusiastic to be credible, but he’s willing to let whatever mischief they’ve got up to slide. They’re good boys, he knows that.
“You boys wanna crawl in with me for a while?”
They’re out of bed and over beside him almost before he’s finished the invitation. Sam has his comforter wrapped around his shoulders like a royal cloak, and John’s flannel shirt hits Dean around mid-knee level.
It’s a selfish offer; shared body heat means he can steal another hour’s sleep before he has to get up and give Jim a hand with the antique and somewhat temperamental furnace.
The boys lead the way, Dean going first and Sam shuffling along behind him, the comforter trailing in his wake. Dean takes a run and bounces onto the bed, the ancient springs creaking in protest at such undignified behavior, and Sam follows suit.
“Easy, there,” John says, but there’s no censure in his tone as he crawls into bed between them. Their teeth chatter uncontrollably, and he pulls them close, wrapping an arm around each boy's shoulders.
“Huddle for warmth,” Dean whispers, and John wonders if he remembers it was Mary who used to say that, when Dean would slip in beside them looking for comfort on a stormy night.
Sammy’s popsicle toes press against his calf and John hisses, bites down on a startled yelp. Beside him Dean sniggers. “Zombie feet.”
“They are not.” Sammy's foot lashes out, his heel missing Dean and hitting John’s knee cap
“Are too.”
“Boys,” John growls and hauls them closer, curling his fingers around their arms. Dean rolls towards him, and John feels the damp warmth of his son’s breath on his bicep. Sammy slings his arm over John’s chest and his breathing slows to a soft snuffling snore.
John’s just glad to be home.
RL at work is still hectic - I'm cleaning toys, and trying to tidy my store, and still keep the kids working and not stressing about next year's intake.
But the main reason for me posting is to wish bethynyc a wonderfully happy birthday. Bethy and I had a blast a couple of years ago writing Baby!Watchers Wesley and Nigel, and I adore her school!verse stuff. Bethy, I have an idea for some Dean/Faith, but for now, accept this little slice of Wee!Winchesters and John schmoop as a birthday sugar overload.
TITLE: Home
RATING: PG (gen)
CHARACTERS: Wee!Dean, Wee!Sammy and John
DISCLAIMER: Not my boys
NOTES: 900 words. Written for 50scenes Prompt #2 Cold. And for Bethy's birthday. John wakes up.
He wakes up freezing. Not pleasantly cool, not a little chilly, but ball-crawlingly, achingly cold. The kind of cold that numbs the tip of his nose, ears and any other extremities unfortunate enough to be left exposed in such arctic conditions. He rolls over, and sees tiny spiderwebs of ice cracking across the window pane, the faint pale shimmer of dawn painting them silver.
His breath steams in the chilled air, and he reaches over to the nightstand, scatters a handful of salt, but there’s no reaction. He reaches in the drawer for his gun almost on a reflex, then stills his hand. It’s the furnace; most likely, especially considering the wards Jim has set in place here.
There’s a soft noise down the hall, pattering feet, and he wonders for a moment if these old parish houses have rats, and exactly how big they must be for him to hear them all the way down the hall, then realizes it’s the boys.
Sammy, probably. He sighs and climbs out of bed, the bare floorboards like sheet-ice under his feet. He feels around for the heavy flannel shirt he shucked off last night, but has no joy. He’d been wrecked; half-asleep for the last fifty miles, bargaining with each eye, closing one, then the other, turn about, as the snow fell quiet and deadly against the windscreen.
He’d arrived around midnight, exhausted and aching and goddamn lucky not to have wrapped the Impala around that big old oak tree at the front of the church. He has vague memories of Jim hustling him inside and giving him hot whiskey and a stern lecture on the perils of driving while comatose. So frankly he’s not surprised he can’t remember where the hell he threw his clothes before he collapsed into bed.
He gives up and heads out of the bedroom in threadbare t-shirt and worn pajama pants. If anything, the hall outside is colder than the guest bedroom. The hairs on his arms rise, and he rubs at the goosebumps, the faint friction warming the skin. The boys are in the room at the end of the corridor, the little low-eaved attic bedroom that Jim always keeps ready for them, just in case. It’s comforting and sobering in equal measure.
He stops at the door. Only one bed is occupied; Dean’s, the one nearest the window, because that’s where Dean always sleeps. So he can check on the salt lines and stand guard, he said simply, when John enquired. Sammy’s bed is empty; the sheets pulled back, the comforter missing.
Sam is curled up against Dean, wrapped tight in the cocoon of the comforter and pulled in close under his brother’s arm. They’re little more than two heads on a pillow, all bound up in a nest of blankets and sheets and what appears to be John’s missing flannel shirt.
Dean surfaces first, gradually aware of another presence in the room. He pushes the comforter down.
“Dad.” His teeth are chattering a little. “Didn’t mean to wake you.”
“S’okay. It’s kinda cold.”
“Yes, sir.” It’s not the yessir of obedience, but more an expression of agreement as Dean nods vehemently, the movement disturbing his brother.
“Deean. You got all the blankets.” Sam’s face appears over the edge of the comforter. “Daddy!”
“Sammy.” John grins, leans against the doorjamb, and wraps his hands around his trembling upper arms.
“D’you get it?” Sammy asks and Dean snorts.
“Course he did. Right, Dad?”
John nods. “Salted and burned.” He steps into the room. “You been good for Pastor Jim?”
The synchronized nodding is a little too enthusiastic to be credible, but he’s willing to let whatever mischief they’ve got up to slide. They’re good boys, he knows that.
“You boys wanna crawl in with me for a while?”
They’re out of bed and over beside him almost before he’s finished the invitation. Sam has his comforter wrapped around his shoulders like a royal cloak, and John’s flannel shirt hits Dean around mid-knee level.
It’s a selfish offer; shared body heat means he can steal another hour’s sleep before he has to get up and give Jim a hand with the antique and somewhat temperamental furnace.
The boys lead the way, Dean going first and Sam shuffling along behind him, the comforter trailing in his wake. Dean takes a run and bounces onto the bed, the ancient springs creaking in protest at such undignified behavior, and Sam follows suit.
“Easy, there,” John says, but there’s no censure in his tone as he crawls into bed between them. Their teeth chatter uncontrollably, and he pulls them close, wrapping an arm around each boy's shoulders.
“Huddle for warmth,” Dean whispers, and John wonders if he remembers it was Mary who used to say that, when Dean would slip in beside them looking for comfort on a stormy night.
Sammy’s popsicle toes press against his calf and John hisses, bites down on a startled yelp. Beside him Dean sniggers. “Zombie feet.”
“They are not.” Sammy's foot lashes out, his heel missing Dean and hitting John’s knee cap
“Are too.”
“Boys,” John growls and hauls them closer, curling his fingers around their arms. Dean rolls towards him, and John feels the damp warmth of his son’s breath on his bicep. Sammy slings his arm over John’s chest and his breathing slows to a soft snuffling snore.
John’s just glad to be home.